Storybulls: The Articles of Facts
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INCHIDENT REPORT On or around America'j birthday, a bird of unknown leather waj objerved wrapping hershelf in a flag-shaped hoodie blanket, while chirping shongsh from the babel, at an undishclojed location in the valley of Washington D-She.
Witneshej report that she appeared shimultaneoushly patriotic and confujed.
When ashked to identify hershelf she referred to hershelf as "Districtofcolumbianca".
When ashked what she waj doing, she shaid: "Very important work". When ashked for more details, she shaid "Do I need to mansplay this to you? I am a rooster, I am a hen, some folks need my help, especially the men! What did you think? That I am some dumb chick exhibiting her bits her and putting out her mating call? Now buzz off!"
Authoritiej have been unable to determine whether theje reportsh deshcribe a lucky shighting of an enigmatic bird, the firsht cashe of the cuckooflu, or a lady of great libertiej.
Big/Beautiful/Believablue
Yellow Mr. Tea,
How are you? I painted you in this very bold style because you are a bold man. A lot of my friends asked me “why did you paint Donald Trump?” and I said “it’s because he is a very fearless man and I am a very fearful chicken and I would really like to absorb some of his oomph. I have always wanted to transition, from chicken to bull, because that is my human right, and this painting is my chance”. Duh.
I used a medium that is light and sheer, so I thought for sure I would have to add a ton of layers for you to appear, but that was not the case. You were actually quick to leap off the canvas. I painted you "alla prima", which means that I got it all done in just one pass. I technically did not overwork you with too many fine details.
The truth bomb is, I wish I could take credit for using such a brave, minimalistic painting style, but I cannot. What really happened was, I was in the midst of painting you and then BOOM! I took a step back and suddenly you came charging at me with your mega presence, and I was tarrifyed so I ran out of my art studio and hid behind my cargo pants, so it had to end there. I do however find that you have some great lines and therefore I am humbly going to call you, this painting, a Triumph. Once in a while I like to toot my own trumpet cannon.
I painted you with lots of blue for o’range o'reasons, but the main one is that it’s my favorite flavor, so don’t feel sour about that because it’s also my favorite taste. Orange you glad I painted you? Do share your peelings about it. But please be gentle with your feedback because I am berry sensitive.
Actually, this painting is gold. So in truth you owe me glowing remarks about it, otherwise I will see you in court.
Thank you for your attention to this matter,
(I was JUST about to sign this letter when all of a sudden I heard your voice thunderously echo. This scared me so I ran away from my laptop and hid behind my lapdog. If I keep hearing your voice like that, I might have to cut off my ear, and then the world would cry out: Oh My Gogh! and then I would only get rich after my death, although I’m hoping that under your administration you will finally eliminate the posthumous wealth tax!!
P.S. Sorry about your hair, I know it’s over the top. And my apologies for also cutting off your ear, but I’m not the one who did that.
P.P.S. I teleported you onto mugs. It's either than or I have some sort of bug in my ear, cuz it's been nonstop ever since I started
I know you know a lot of things about a lot of people, and I know that you have a lot of people working for you who tell you a lot of things about a lot of people- but you definitely don’t know this about me:
Which is that every morning, I sit down with my crumpet and my cup of Earl Grey, which includes Bergamot, floating inside your receptacle, and we chat. About a lot of things and a lot of people. And thanks to these chats, I now know a lot of things about a lot of people. Not only that- I’ve also caught your Oomphness!! Or maybe it’s dondon me that you’re really adorabull??
I sometimes find myself wanting to squeeeeze you! That's why I place you on my nightstand before I go to bed. You tell me all about what you were up to that day which lulls me to sleep so fast, it's incredible. Even dogs don't fall asleep that quickly.
The great thing is that you never leave my side. The other night, I had this dream, and you were in it.
We were in two planes.
Passing each other in the sky.
My plane cried out to yours:
SAUCE! SAUCE!
I rolled down my window.
You rolled down yours.
And I said : “Excuse me sir, do you have any Earl Grey?"
And you said: “I only have petro-chamomile.”
At which point I said: “But is that caffeinated?"
At which point you replied: "I think I can probably find you something storanger in the cargo bin, but I can only give it to you if you solve this riddle for me, as I've been scratching my head over it for a long time: Où est le chapeau?"
And I said, "Damn it I don't know! But I'm certain that if I quench my snort the answer will come to me like grey on white!!"
You handed me the beverage.
It was brown and fizzy
It smelled a bit sketchy
This drink appeared
To not be up my alley
But I had to keep my promise, so I raised my glass towards you and said “Drinkuntroo!”
Since hate to waste things I poured the rest of your drink into my fuel tank.
And with that my plane drove off, leaving a trail of brown skid marks in the sky.
Cheers,
Your Bee Eff Effervescent one.
P.P.S. Excuse me sir, but are you in the middle of something? I can’t stop drinking about you. Can we play a guessing game? Here are the clues:
It’s can of ancient like the beeramids
but not going as far back as the Tea-Repticles.
It contains unsolved mysteries.
It’s older than thyme but in mint condition.
It reaches the sky
when you kneel in de grass.
You probably won’t be able to handle it.
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Bold & Beautifiul
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Dear Berry,
I know that I probably shouldn’t call you that, but after painting your portrait, I have developed a level of comfort and familiarity which I really did not expect, so Berry is what feels natural & organic to me right now. Anyhow, I have attached my painting of you to this letter, and I probably didn’t have to tell you that it’s you because I really think that I really really really caught your likeness, which is not a disease, so please don’t think I was implying that. While capturing your likeness, I also managed to depict you in a way that’s really “out there”, which is incredible, really.
No, I did not paint this under the influence of anything (or anyone, not even you, even though I will always remember you as an excellent Poetician who would so feverishly express being madly in love with America, myself included, and don’t be coy about that - I saw the way you undressed the nation). The reason I don’t eat psychedelic things is because I see the world through a weird enough lens and it happens without trying, so this effect of your skin looking patchy is just my pure artistic talent. Again, this is not an illness, so please don’t worry about your health. I’m sorry, but I do not diagnose paintings. However, the Affordable Care Act does (actually, I prefer to call it P-P-A-C-A because it agrees with my stutter).
In this portrait, you give off botanical, geological, biological and even galactic vibes. I dressed you in a sharp, black space-agey suit because you always have your eye on the future, like Leon Musk, and you probably have had contact with aliens, such as the Leonmusks, and kept that a secret from US, but I forgive you because it’s a humiliating thing to admit, even though I personally could handle your secret, and would love love love to get a hold of that type of information about you. I’d be happy to lend you an ear on that, but you’d have to promise not to nibble on it because it’s the only one I have left.
I placed you against a kaolin-white wall, in contrast with your black suit, given that you do not strike me as a being who is into a particular number of shades of grey, although that part is debacable. After reviewing your Kikipedia Certificate, I almost decided to paint you as a panda bear but then I thought that might cause pandamonium. I also chose not to paint you like Barry White.
In this portrait your gaze is turned away from me, as I needed you to look away from me so you wouldn’t notice my fuchsia expressions while I was doing your makeover, which wasn't my first, and wasn't my last, and definitely covered everything.
Love,
Your Greek yogi
P.S. Sorry for cutting off your ear. It’s a bad hobbit of mine. Also, please forgive my pet squid. He has a cold, and lately there's been a shortage of toilet paper cuz someone's been stashing them.
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P.P.S.
PAINTBULL FIGHT
(AND THE FLOOR IS LAVA)
Jimmy I’m a big fan. A fan that blows big strong winds in your direction. Can you feel my breeze? I’m the kind of fan that sends winds strong enough to blow you away and also make you wonder “how do the birds and bees do it???”
Jimmy can I please have tickets to your Jimmy Fallon show. Send me as many as you can. And by that I mean, send me the exact number of tickets that’s right before the number that makes you roll your eyeballs at me for asking for too many tickets.
In exchange for that, I offer you a pair of painted portrait peejay pants. Painted portrait peejay pants that capture a lot more of you than any other thingamabobblehead ever could (because I know that behind your jester lurks an evil genius).
Conjuring you was no laughing matter. I tried hard to spell out your essence, but the problem is that you kept whining “I’m flat as a pancake” and “this suit makes my hair look like fudge” so then I got fed up and said “no suit for you!”, at which point you started seeing something red, so you slipped into something more “pump-up-the-lingonberry-preserves”.
Jimmy, I worked my pants off t̶o̶ b̶e̶a̶r̶ f̶r̶u̶i̶t̶ i̶n̶ y̶o̶u̶r̶ p̶a̶n̶t̶s̶ to bring your pants to fruition. You are very mutable. There are sooo many of you that I’ve lost count. You really are some kind of homogenius.
Jimmy why are you being speechless?
Anyhow, Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy, if you send me those tickets after midnight, my man, you will be considered late, and therefore I will turn you into a pumpkin that was carved out by my inner four-year-old named Carrie O'Dontal, and your shoes will smell like Roquefart cheese.
Yours however-you-like-to-toast-me,
Brieanca
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B.S. Thank you for the crickets, but I sort of won’t be able to attend your show. What happened is that I was painting in the Jacks, minding my own chair pose, doing my usual diddly squats, just bumdinging away, when suddenly I felt creepy supervisor vibes coming from behind me. It was you, Jimmy, and you were giving me the stink-eye. I rolled my eyeballs and said “First of all, stop stalling at me. This isn’t some kind of peepee show. Second of all, fork crying out loud, what’s the matter now, got your he-jammies in a brunch?”. Apparently you found that very rude because from then on everything was a blur.
“The details are in the disheveled devil’s double! Your rectangles are banjanxed!” You exclaimed. You then came charging at me with the fury of a bat out of hell on wheel of fortune, and then you rammed right into my mosaic tile wall, leaving you with a splitting headache.
I kept telling meself “Thes es jest a bat drim”, but then you pinched me and said “stop rolling your R’s, and roll down the bloody window!” and then I said “keep yer' hands off me vowels, you flockin' eejit!” and then you said "You're the one who pinned me to the wall, and I wouldn't torch you with a ten foot foot!!" and then I said "ohhh, so now you want to play footsie? If I wer' in yer' shoes"-
And with that I tapped my shoes together and whispered 'there's no place like Portolé" but nothing happened, so I decided to stomp out of the room instead. It was incredible Jimmy because I barely took one step forward when it occurred to me that I must be trippin' bulls because-
I mangered the ultimate escape. I squeezed myself freshly inside the holy potty fountain, in a very MacDyver-esque fashion, splashing about with the grace of a Europeean model sporting knickers named Mary of the Waterloo.
I’m warning you Jimmy: If you come any closer I will spit cran-apple juice at you. But since you’re into that sort of thing, you did end up approaching me, and I did try to use my schpritzer-tank on you but it malfunctioned.
Instead, a typhoon swept in; blustering winds followed by a downpour so strong, I thought it was firing out of your lederhosen, or something. I mean, this deluge completely melted us like two marshmallows on a candlestick turning into Siamese goop and dripping down a fireman's pole, or something.
But noooo of course youuuu had to blame meeee for all of it and then you said “Ewwww! Say it don’t spray it! You can’t have sixty-four tickets!”.
Jimmy yoo wong about that! That’s not fail! I can’t contlor if the watel fars on you. It wasn’t my fart! I want to go to the Lockeferrel Praza nowwwwww!
Your Chinookums,
Lorraine
PeePeeSss. How art thy pants holding up? I’ve heard that the half-shirt-and-tie-half-peejay-bottoms-outfit is the look of the centaury. Just ask Kevin O’Weewee. Let me know if you want some suspenders, dot dot dot.